For my gates are the gates of death
by irnan
Summary: It's a little worrying, how much she likes to talk to him. Or it would be, if she ever let herself think about what draws her back here, over and over. --- SPOILERS for 3.16.


_This is a disclaimer.  
_

_**AN:** Jest call this one "batshit crazy". Certain themes here were snitched from Philip Pullman and C.S. Lewis.  
_

**For my gates are the gates of death**

Every woman should have a room of her own. A kingdom exclusive to her, where she can rule supreme and be herself, away from outside pressures and presences; that was, she thinks, the gist of the quotation. She can't be sure, though. She's never really taken an interest in such things.

Of course, her room _is_ a kingdom. Stretching into eternity in every direction, a kingdom of fire and shadows, of darkness and light. A kingdom of truth, and justice, and repentance.

A kingdom of truth, because everyone who passes her gates inevitably learns the truth about themselves.

A kingdom of justice, because all who linger here are sinners, evildoers, heathens; and here, finally, they get their just rewards for their deeds – even and especially if they never received them in life.

A kingdom of repentance, because not a one of them has not stretched out broken hands to the Heavens they will never see and cried _forgive me, Father!_

It amuses her no end when they do that.

These Christians. They think their whole religion is based on apologies, of all things. It's really quite pathetic.

She skips and dances through her kingdom, humming a tune that matches the rise and fall of the screams around her, dainty little feet barely touching the ground. Some reach out to her in supplication, seeing only her naked beauty, her grace, her smile.

He sees nothing but her eyes.

She doesn't come by often. They're both too busy: him being tortured, her taking over the world. But she likes to talk to him. He's one of the few who know her. One of the few who dare to loathe her.

"You again."

It's a miracle he can speak today, his chest is clawed wide open from groin to neck, hanging limply in his bonds. She bends over him a little, fascinated by the pulse and twist and beat and slide of organs and muscles and tendons over bone.

"Me again. Baby brother's been making quite a nuisance of himself."

He makes a noise that might have been a chuckle.

"That's my boy."

"Yes," she muses, perched next to him on the chains, swinging her feet over the abyss, "I suppose he is, really. Interesting Azazel never saw that."

"Self-centered."

"Point," she agrees. "Can I ask you something?"

"Can I stop you?"

She giggles. Here she is, keeping the little bastard sane, for reasons she herself will never understand, and he keeps on mouthing off to her like she's the captive and he the gaoler.

Maybe that _is_ the reason she bothers with him. It's been a long time since she took a consort.

"Why don't you ever ask forgiveness?"

He stares. "Of who?"

She pulls a face. "You know. Him."

"He doesn't exist."

"I do."

"For now. The kicks I'm gonna get out of watching you die."

"You know what I mean," she says. She doesn't want to fight with him. She wants to know.

"I've done nothing that needs forgiving," he says. Then pauses, thoughtful. He hasn't noticed yet that his chest is closing up, healing itself, ripped skin knitting back together, hiding that beauty inside, the steady unrelenting beat of his heart. "Well, you know. There was that thing with the Nair. And the time I lost Dad's best binoculars… I was hunting a Black Dog. Or… something in the woods. He was furious. And I think I wrecked Mom's flowerbeds once. But other than that?"

He shrugs.

"But you're here," she insists.

He raises an eyebrow. "Because I want to be."

"You tried to get out of it!"

"I tried to kill you," he snaps, fully healed now, straining once more against his bonds. "I wouldn't have _backed out_," and his tone is so full of disgust and anger, so totally offended, that she smiles.

"The exception that proves the rule."

She bends over and kisses his forehead, light and gentle, runs a finger down the side of his perfect face.

"It's these Christians," she tries to explain, waving a hand at the emptiness surrounding them, as if that alone explains everything. "They all seem to think that their religion – this marvelous religion that's brought them so much pain and fear and death – that it's about repentance. About forgiveness."

She stands up then, tall and bright, a light in the darkness more terrible even than the shadows that claw and bite and tear and rape and drink of the blood of their victims.

"They're wrong, darling. They're all so very very wrong. Their precious religion – their God, their Christ, their Holy Spirit – it's not about repentance. It's about punishment. I am the instrument and the instigator, the very centre of their religion. It's me they should be worshipping, me they should be calling to! I _am_ Christianity! I am their belief made flesh. The personification of their religion built on sin and punishment, on damnation and death."

He doesn't say anything, just lies there, looking at her. Doesn't even look awed.

She drops again then, suddenly fed up.

"I'm sick of punishment," she says in a small voice. "I'm sick of destruction and agony and glutting myself on blood. It's all so – so painful. All any of them did was take their life and live it the way they wanted. Much as I did. I was cast from Eden for it, and they are cast to me – why? In recompense? What a joke. Or _is_ this my punishment? Am I to be their gaoler for eternity to pay for my own sins? What kind of a God does that, anyhow? What kind of higher benign being punishes people for wanting to be allowed to choose their own lives? Supposedly, we've all got free will. And we say _thank you very much, that's great, here, have another temple_. And we go away and use it, because why else is it there? And then He punishes us for it. I mean, I've got as much right to have sex on top as you do, darling."

"I gotta tell ya, I'm not feelin' the sympathy here," he says.

She grins, brightening up. "Yeah, I know. Don't worry about it. Soon I'll have the world to play with, and someone else can bother with this punishment crap. I'm sick of having my immortal existence dictated to me by men."

She jumps up, pirouettes along the chains and back.

"Must be off. Plans to make, worlds to take over. I'll say hi to baby brother for you."

"I'd appreciate it," he says. "Oh, by the way. The Christianity thing?"

"Hmm?"

"He really digs it."

She grins wider, bends to kiss his lips. "An adversary worthy of my steel."

"You're insane."

"Of course," she agrees. "Wouldn't you be, stuck down here?" gesturing again at all the infinite expanse of Hell. He can't see anything, she knows; can't see the fires, the tortures, the others here writhing in agony, but their screams are in her ears day and night.

"Hilarious."

He's so beautiful when whole, when strong and brave and defiant. She loves him like that, complete, unmarked, unbowed. She wants to keep him like this forever, preserve his precious self in glass to look at, to admire when it all gets too much, untouched, unmarred.

Unfortunately, that's not the way this works. There are rules, after all.

"My darlingest," she says. "I'm so sorry."

He hisses as something tears at his leg, rips the skin. Fire creeps along the other, smell of his own flesh burning in his nostrils.

"So much for not about repentance," he gasps out as the injuries, made by invisible hands, creep ever higher, blood running over his skin as it peels away, glint of bone and glisten of muscle in the unchanging light.

She backs away, one step at a time, apologies unspoken churning in her gut.


End file.
